


The Erotic Adventures of Jonathan Sims, aged 31 1/2; The explorations of an intellectually curious asexual with a deep seated need to know

by ZaliaChimera



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, BDSM, Big Bang Challenge, Bondage, Caning, Canon Asexual Character, Consensual, Consensual Kink, Curiosity, Exploration of sexuality, Friendship, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, High Heels, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Love, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink, Past Relationship(s), Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sex Positive Asexual Character, Sex Repulsed Asexual Character, Spanking, Subspace, Wax Play, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, asexual elias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: Sex, Jonathan Sims had decided a long time ago, was confusing. This obviously meant that further research was required. During the course of that research he has managed to acquire one (1) boyfriend (Martin, who he adores), one (1) play partner-slash-dom-slash-relationship counsellor (Elias, smug but extremely competent and discreet, with high standards), and a rather good way of making his brain be quiet for longer than a few minutes.Now Martin is staying over at his house, Elias has invited them both to dinner, and Peter thinks it's all rather amusing.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 53
Kudos: 215
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	The Erotic Adventures of Jonathan Sims, aged 31 1/2; The explorations of an intellectually curious asexual with a deep seated need to know

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Big Bang Fic for 2020. I was partnered with the fabulous Liko who you can find [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/PolOfSerenity/status/1301248503767871490) or over on [Tumblr](https://polofserenity.tumblr.com/post/628177240076730368/i-participated-in-the-rqbb-and-was-more-than-happy) who did the amazing artwork to go with the fic!
> 
> Also many thanks to [WhyNotFly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyNotFly/profile) for Betaing!
> 
> This fic deals a lot with experiences of sexuality as an asexual person, and explores kink separate from sex. Jon is bi-ace and general neutral to favourable about sex. Elias here is also asexual but sex-repulsed.

Sex, Jonathan Sims had decided a long time ago, was confusing. This realisation had come to him when his boyfriend at the time had shoved him up against the wall in between lectures and sucked him off. It had left him sweaty and uncomfortable during his afternoon seminar, and the look that his boyfriend had given him when he’d asked why it couldn’t just wait until the evening had put paid to that relationship.

Obviously, this had warranted extensive ongoing research. 

“Martin’s staying over tomorrow night,” Jon says. 

The cuff tightens around his wrist. Jon gasps and tugs against it. 

“Sounds thrilling. Is that comfortable, Jon?” Elias asks. He slides a finger beneath the edge of the cuff to test it. His hands are bare and his fingers are warm, and Jon nods out of habit.

Elias clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Words Jon. You know better.”

He does, and because he knows better, he manages to stifle the sigh that wells up in his throat. “They’re comfortable. I’m fine, Elias.”

That earns him a sharp smack to the arse. Elias gives good smacks, Jon has learned. His palm is large and he’s very good at knowing just the right amount of weight to put behind the motion to make Jon’s brain white out for a few seconds.

When he comes back to himself, Elias’ hand is still there against his arse, stroking against what must be a very lovely red mark. 

“What was that, Jon?” Elias asks again, and fuck, there’s that tone in his voice that drips into his ear like silk and steel and makes him want to melt. Good thing he knows his cues very well by now. He lets his head drop, gaze fixed on the floor.

“They’re comfortable, Sir.”

He can _hear_ Elias’ smile when the words fall off his tongue, and anticipation sparks through him. “Better.”

He steps away and Jon can hear the sound of the 3 inch heels against the floor, a staccato tap tap tap. They’re gorgeous shoes, all shiny black with red soles and heels that look sharp enough to stab someone. He tries to imagine what Elias is doing now as he crosses the room. Maybe he runs a finger against the crops and paddles in their places on the wall, or maybe his gaze falls to the box of dildos and vibrators, although he hadn’t seemed in the mindset for the messy realities of flesh and orgasm tonight.

Click. Click. Click. 

Silence

Anticipation crawls up Jon’s spine like an electric current (and there’s something he should see about trying one day, the tingle of electricity and the pulse of circuits), and then-

“He’s never stayed over before. Not properly. Only by accident.”

Ah yes, the babbling. 

“It got late last time and he missed the last train so I slept on the sofa and-“

The words spill out of him like bubbling water as he waits for some acknowledgement from Elias, a desperate attempt to break the silence that enfolds him. He’s sure that one of these days, Elias will get tired of him, and his impeccable ability to break the mood and-

“Jon.”

The word is not shouted, or snapped, or snarled. Some might even consider it mild, if they didn’t know Elias well. Jon feels the obsidian in the way Elias says his name, and falls silent.

“Good. Now…” Something trails down Jon’s back. Not a finger, not warm enough for that. A little sharp, sort of scratchy. Elias taps it lightly, not even enough to hurt, against one of Jon’s buttocks. “Did you have something else to say, Jon? Or shall we begin?”

Jon’s breath catches in his throat, an aborted little gasp that threatens to choke him. “Yes, Sir.”

“Yes what?”

“Please begin, Sir.”

Elias chuffs a pleased noise and his fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Jon’s neck briefly. “Safe word?”

“Spider,” Jon replies quickly, and he shivers when Elias scratches lightly at his scalp before pulling away.

“Very good. Make sure that you use it if necessary.”

It isn’t a request. Jon bows his head, braces himself, tensing against the restraints, and then forces himself to relax bit by bit, muscle by muscle, until he feels like he’s melting into the padding beneath him.

The swipe of the cane is a test. It lands against his buttocks, a love tap more than anything. Not even enough to really sting. Elias draws a line along the mark, pressing in just a bit, checking that it doesn’t run across the bonier part of Jon’s arse.

Elias gives a soft hum of satisfaction. “Then we’ll begin.”

This strike is not a love tap. It cuts across his skin, a stripe of sharp pain followed moments later by the hot burn that spreads through his skin and makes him gasp. The second stripe lands just below the first; Elias always had been precise. Jon cries out at the pain, breath coming a bit more raggedly as Elias lays down a third blow quickly after.

Jon can feel it though, the white static creeping across his mind with each blow. It curls and coils and engulfs all of those skittering, hungry thoughts, sedates them until there is nothing but his body and physical sensation.

Six, seven, eight.

Jon breathes out and melts against the restraints. Those last bits of tension melt out of him leaving him a creature of breath and blood and hurt. The cuffs hold him firm, but he still tries to move back towards the cane, begging wordlessly for more.

Everything is burning and sting, lit up nerves that spark fiercely, blood boiling and skin scorched. There’s someone shouting, whimpering, but it seems very, very far away. Jon is floating and it is bliss.

The caning stops, and he feels fingers run over the marks left across his arse. The pain swells and ebbs with each application of pressure and Jon’s heartbeat matches it, heavy in his chest.

“How are you doing, Jon?” 

Elias’ voice is velvet against his senses; mostly soft, but with that prickle when the threads catch against skin just right. Jon makes a hummed noise in return and rubs his cheek against the gentle suede of the headrest.

There’s a laugh and then the warmth of Elias’ hand runs down his back, spreading through him in a very different way to the scorching heat of his arse. He arches up into it as much as he can, which is admittedly not much when his body feels removed from him, distant in a way that is freeing and comforting. 

“Words, Jon,” Elias coaxes. “I know you can do it. You’ll be good for me, won’t you?’

It drags a strangled moan out of his throat, and he rocks his hips against the table, feeling the twitch of arousal. Elias rests a hand against the small of his back and pushes him down. Not that. Not today. That’s not what they’re playing today.

It’s enough to ground Jon though, to tether him back to the messy reality of flesh. He stretches, feels the pull of skin, the delicious hurt. Feels the curl of his fingers, the warming leather beneath him where there aren’t towels. He breathes in slowly, one, two three, hold it, and out, two three. And then he has words again.

“Green,” he grinds out, the shape of the letters rough on his tongue. “I feel good Eli- Sir.”

Elias hums and Jon can feel his eyes roaming over his body, checking him for truth. “Very well,” he says. “Why don’t we try something with a bit more weight to it?”

Jon moans in response.

Time doesn’t work when Elias finally stops and lets the pain subside without refreshing it. The caning has probably only lasted 20 minutes or so, full of stops and starts and rests to check that he’s okay, but endorphin-drunk as he is, time isn’t something that Jon has much use for right now. He lies there and breathes and breathes and breathes. He can feel the blood as it runs through his veins, can feel the prickle of each hair across his body. The slow inhale-exhale inflation of lungs and press of the diaphragm. Sinew and muscle working together without the constant buzz saw of thought.

He floats for a few moments that might be hours, and then there’s the press of a solid hand between his shoulder blades, a constant pressure that grounds him and starts to merge body and mind again, tether him to this place and form.

“Jon?” 

He blinks and turns his head as much as he can to look over at the syllable that means him. 

“That’s good,” Elias says. He moves to stand in front of Jon, and crouches down so that Jon can see the proud, fond, curl of his lips as he brushes sweaty hair out of Jon’s face. “Come back to me, Jon. Can you count with me? Down from twenty.”

Jon frowns, his brow furrowing as he pieces the words together from the fragments of thought and idea. Counting. Yes, he can do that. Numbers don’t have ambiguity like words do. 

He gives a short nod, and Elias pats his cheek. 

“Twenty,” he begins, and gives Jon the time he needs to make his lips form the letters. He would like to drift for longer, but he wants to please Elias more right now. That’s why he’s here, after all. To not make decisions.

“Twenty.”

It comes out hoarse and uncertain, but Elias smiles so he must have got it right, and after that it’s just a slow, careful climb down, following the guide rope that Elias has laid out for him. 

Nineteen, eighteen, and his lips find the shape of the words, like feeling out a rough-hewn step with his toes. 

Fifteen, fourteen, and he can feel that connection to his fingers, can curl them and feel like they belong to him.

Ten, nine. He pauses to lick his dry lips, and Elias presses a straw against them so he can sip enough water to wet the roof of his mouth.

Five, four. The dull throb of his arse is a constant pulse and the urge to sleep is creeping up on him from the edges of his mind. He yawns out the numbers.

Three, two, one.

And done. He is Jonathan Sims, and he is tied up in the spare room of Elias Bouchard’s London townhouse, the one that he’s turned into a rather lovely BDSM room that Jon calls his ‘kink dungeon’ and Elias calls ‘The Guest Room’ because the man likes being euphemistic and cryptic far too much.

“Good boy,” Elias says. His thumb runs against Jon’s lips, and Jon flicks his tongue out to lap at it. Elias lets him lick and suck the digit for a moment, before he pulls away and starts to unfasten the cuffs. They’d tried this standing up once, Jon against the wall in shackles, and while the aesthetic had been impeccable, the bruises on his knees when he’d drastically overestimated his ability to remain standing had been unpleasant. The table is much better.

Elias keeps up a litany of soft words as he releases Jon, a soothing drone of praise that fills Jon’s chest cavity with warmth, such a good boy for him, so proud of him for taking that. 

“What a beautiful red arse,” Elias says, and the satisfaction in his voice makes Jon shiver. His cock isn’t hard, but he thinks he could get there easily enough if that was what either of them were here for. He runs a finger along one of the stripes hard enough to make Jon hiss in pain, brain sparking sluggishly. “You scream so prettily when I lay stripes on you, Jon. I’m glad I got the room soundproofed or everyone would be able to hear you.”

Jon’s cheeks heat up at that, a squirming mix of humiliation and the arousal that causes warring within him. “That might have caused problems for you.”

Elias chuckles and gives his arse a possessive pat. “You’d be surprised what people overlook. No, let’s get some ointment on you, or your dear Martin will be wondering why you refuse to sit down tomorrow.”

Oh god, Martin. Jon shifts on the table, cheeks heating further at the thought of Martin asking why he can’t sit and having to explain. He hasn’t exactly kept Elias a secret, but the thought of Martin asking about it makes him feel strange. He isn’t sure how to categorise the feeling yet.

Elias gives another soft laugh and Jon hears the click of his heels as he crosses the room. There’s the rustle of clothing and then sudden coldness spreading across his abused arse. He gasps and arches. “E-elias!”

“I had it in the fridge,” Elias says, remorseless. “Does it feel good?”

He starts to massage the cream or gel or whatever it is into Jon’s backside, fingers pressing just enough to rub it into the skin, but not enough to really hurt. It does feel good actually, once the shock of sudden cold wears off. It drives away the burning, soothes the ache, and gives space for exhaustion and that sweet contentment that comes after a good scene.

“It’s nice,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

Elias’ hand stills for a moment before he continues. “It’s what I do. No need to thank me.”

“I don’t need to thank the checkout lady at Tesco, but I still do.”

“Well, I sincerely hope that you aren’t letting the checkout lady bend you over and redden your lovely backside,” Elias says with a curl of dark humour.

“Do you ever take things seriously?” Jon asks, heat reddening his already scorching cheeks. 

“Plenty of things,” Elias replies lightly. “Now, lets get some food and water into you.” His tone brooks no argument. Jon knows better than to try.

Elias leaves Jon there briefly as he heads over to the small fridge in the room to retrieve post-scene snacks. He makes sure that Jon can hear him at all times, even if he can’t see him. It makes Jon smile, knowing that he’s doing it. He rolls over onto his side so that he can watch the lean lines of Elias’ body as he moves, the suit not quite managing to conceal the strength in his body, the way the heels make his calves stand out. Jon would like to look like that some day, so in control and put together and graceful. 

Elias catches him looking and smirks for a second, then returns with water bottles and a handful of cereal bars which he deposits next to Jon. He uncaps one of the bottles of water and slides a straw into it before offering it to Jon, who sips obediently, soothing his parched throat. 

“How are you feeling?” Elias asks, his gaze running over Jon’s face like he can see right through him. 

“Like I just got my arse spanked,” Jon replies, archly. He sips at the water more, and elaborates when he’s drunk his fill. “Good. I feel lovely. Relaxed.” He feels like his head is full of static which keeps the rest of the world and his ever spinning thoughts at bay. 

“I’m glad,” Elias replies. “You were looking tense, even for you. We can’t have you breaking. You’re too much fun to bend.”

Jon gives a soft snort, and then scoops up one of the cereal bars. Now he’s not in the middle of things, he’s ravenous, and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten since lunch, and that had only been a sandwich. While he eats, Elias touches him; strokes his hair, runs fingertips over his shoulders and collarbones and the lines of hips and stomach. It’s intense being touched when everything is stripped away like this, and it helps him build up that thin tendril connecting him to the physical. It’s like being wrapped up in a heavy blanket.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Elias says, when Jon starts yawning in between bites of food and sips of water. 

“I could probably make it home,” Jon mumbles, apologetically. The words are barely out before Elias slides his arms under him and scoops him up, leaving him cradled against Elias’ chest.

“Nonsense,” Elias says. “You know you’re welcome here. And I don’t like the thought of you having a delayed reaction on the tube and ending in some godforsaken part of London.”

“You think anywhere outside of Zone 1 is godforsaken,” Jon points out, stifling a grin against the strip of skin that Elias’ unbuttoned shirt has left exposed.

“That’s not true, Jon. Some areas of Greenwich are quite lovely.”

He says it with such seriousness that Jon has to laugh, bubbly little snickers and giggles which leave him shaking against Elias’ chest as he’s carried out of the room and towards one of the actual guest rooms of Elias’ obscenely large home. 

Elias nudges the door open with his shoulder and deposits Jon onto the bed, careful of his aching backside. It still makes Jon hiss at the sudden flare of pain, but it’s mostly faded to a dull throb that he can savour.

“Do you need anything, Jon?” Elias asks.

Jon considers it, and then shakes his head. “No. I’m alright. You take good care of me, as usual.”

“Glad to hear it. Sleep well, Jon. Come get me if you need anything.” He leans in and presses a kiss against Jon’s forehead, and then leaves, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Jon lets out a soft breath and relaxes on the bed. It’s huge and soft and comfortable, even against his aching skin, and the whole room feels somehow comforting, like he belongs there. It’s ridiculous, because Jon is just a guest, but he’s stayed here frequently enough that he feels like he has some claim on the pale blue room that looks out over the manicured back garden.

He closes his eyes and counts down from ten. His name is Jonathan Sims, and he’s in the house of Elias Bouchard. Tomorrow morning he will go back to his flat, and tomorrow night, Martin is staying over. 

He’s fast asleep before he reaches one.

—————

The boys at Jon’s high school had acted, like most teenage boys do, as though sex was the most desired and most repulsive thing in the world; something to brag about for the carnal physicality of it, for the status of poorly understood masculinity, and something to shun for the messy emotional vulnerability of it.

“I shagged her at the back of the youth club,” Richard Jones said, with a smug look of superiority on his face, and was cheered on by the rest of the group of awkward, gangling sixteen year olds who weren’t really Jon’s friends, but who didn’t mind him hanging around the edges of the group as long as he helped them with their homework sometimes.

“What about you, Sims? Have you slept with anyone?”

Jon stared at him like a rabbit caught in headlights. “What?”

“You know, the girls love you.”

“They-“ It wasn’t a lie; the girls seemed fine with having him around, but that didn’t mean- 

His face was hot, stomach squirming with discomfort as the other boys began to laugh. 

“You must think one of them’s hot,” another boy said.

Jon’s mind raced to figure out what an acceptable answer was. The girls were nice enough. They were less aggressive than the boys for sure, but more scathing. Less likely to hide his bag somewhere, but more likely to remind him in a sickly-sweet way that he did not fit in. But hot? He’d heard enough conversations and read enough magazines to know the intention, but the words never connected for him. There were supposed to be fireworks in your brain, right? Sparks and light when you saw someone?

Jon bit his lip and chose a name at random, apprehension already threatening to bury him. “I suppose I like-“

They took the piss, of course they did, and Jon endured it, like he endured the weird looks they gave him when he asked how they decided upon who to be attracted to. He was just missing some vital piece of information, a variable in an equation, and once he found it, everything about these conversations would suddenly make sense. 

Eighteen months later he slept with Charlotte Harris after the sixth form ball because she was kind and she liked him, and discovered that apparently ‘messy, but interesting enough’ was not a good response when the person you slept with asked how it was.

—————

“Sorry! God, I’m sorry I’m late.”

Martin doubles over to catch his breath after pelting full speed up the escalator at the tube stop and nearly careening into the ticket barrier because his Oyster card wasn’t ready.

“There’s an event at the museum tonight and I said I’d help with making sure everything is ready, but then the caterers were late and I had to call them an-“

He sucks in a few more breaths and gives Jon a relieved smile, his shoulders slumping. “It’s good to see you.”

Jon smiles back and reaches for his hand so he can pull it to his lips and kiss his knuckles. “I’m glad to see you too. And nothing to apologise for. God knows I’ve left work late enough times myself.”

Martin snorts, but Jon can see the flush creeping up his neck at the kiss. He always reacts like this to the simplest things; careful and chaste kisses to his knuckles, or Jon buying him a pastry from the shop near his flat before they meet up, or a photograph of a fluffy duck that Jon saw on the river during his lunch break. So many small things, and Jon finds that enchanting. He curls their fingers together as they set off, and feels Martin squeeze them back.

“I thought we could get take-away,” Jon says, as they leave the tube station. “That nice Italian place does take-away.”

“That sounds lovely,” Martin agrees, and he nudges his shoulder against Jon’s.

It’s a nice evening, warm with just the faintest hum of a breeze to keep it from being sticky. The area is busy at this time, full of people heading out to eat or to the bars. They fall into that brisk, London walking pace as they head to Jon’s flat; no time for dawdling when it might hold someone else up and lead to people paying attention to you. Not much chance to talk really, but Jon doesn’t live that far away and it’s only ten minutes or so before he’s unlocking the front door to his small flat and stepping aside to let Martin in.

It isn’t the first time that Martin has been there— he kicks his shoes off at the entrance and hangs up his jacket with familiarity— but the overnight bag that he’s holding is new, and there is uncertainty in how he holds it, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to be here.

Jon understands that. Staying over at someone’s home is odd at first, like wearing a new shirt that hasn’t been softened by washing yet.

“I can put that in the bedroom,” he offers, and holds out his hand, because he’d rather get the awkwardness over with. 

“O-oh, yes, please,” Martin says, and gives a tentative smile as he hands over the bag.

“Make yourself at home,” Jon calls over his shoulder as he settles the bag neatly next to the bed. His bed. Their bed? 

The bed. 

When he emerges, Martin has sat down on the sofa in the spot he always takes, or at least, that he’s taken the times he’s been here, legs tucked underneath him. There’s a hole in one of his socks and Jon finds that incredibly endearing. 

“Tea? Or I have wine if you prefer?” 

“Tea is fine,” Martin says, and beams at him. “Do you want to watch something?”

“Mmmm, I don’t mind,” Jon says. “Put whatever you’d like on.”

He can hear the strains of some comedy show as he puts the kettle on, and can’t suppress a smile at the thought of Martin sitting on his sofa, comfortable enough to switch on the TV. It sends a warm thrill through his belly and he loses himself in that feeling for long enough that he misses the kettle switching off for several seconds.

“Oh, thanks Jon,” Martin says when he brings the mug out. It’s the mug with the pattern of a fluffy cow on it that Jon has mentally decided is Martin’s, rather the one of the plain guest mugs that sit at the back of the cupboard and gather dust. Martin smiles, and his face crinkles and Jon wants to run his fingers over every line to burn the sight into his memory in every way that he can.

Jon sets his own mug on the coffee table, and sits down. 

And lets out a low hiss of pain as his abused arse has pressure put onto it too much too quickly, and right over that bit of the sofa where the cushion sags and you can feel the hard structure of it. Bad idea. 

“Jon, are you okay?” Martin asks. He puts his mug down and leans over, urgency etched into his expression.

Jon winces and stands back up. “I’m fine, Martin. Hand me that pillow, would you?”

“You don’t sound fine,” Martin says, but passes over the pillow dutifully. Jon sets it on the sofa and sits back down with a great deal more care.

He reaches for his tea. Martin is still looking at him, lips pursed. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine, I promise. Just a bit… tender after last night.”

“After- oh! Is this a…” He waves his hands in a way that Jon assumes is meant to encompass all sorts of debauched things, “A kink thing?”

Jon manages to stifle a laugh at that. It probably wouldn’t be appreciated. “Yes, Martin. It’s a ‘kink thing’.”

“Right,” Martin says, and sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “As long as it makes you happy,” he adds, and that sounds more genuine. 

“It does,” Jon says. “It… helps.” And it helps that Martin accepts that too.

Martin squeezes his fingers and goes back to his tea. They lapse into companionable hush for a while, occasionally commenting on the show.

“Can I see?”

Jon blinks, and looks over at Martin. “Pardon?”

Martin is blushing furiously, and stares down at his mug as though it holds the secrets of the universe. “What you did. Can I see it? I just want to-“ He takes a breath and looks up at Jon, fixing him with an intent gaze. “I want to check that you’re really alright.”

“You-“ Jon blinks a few times, wrangling the words into some sort of order. “You want to see my arse?”

“I mean, it is a nice arse,” Martin mutters, and then looks mortified over having said that out loud. “I mean-“

“Alright,” Jon says, and it’s Martin’s turn to look surprised.

“What, really?”

“Yes. We’re sort of a couple, and Elias shouldn’t be the only person who gets to see my backside.” He’s not uncomfortable with the idea of Martin seeing him naked. “Is that weird?” he asks after a second.

“A little bit,” Martin says. “But it’s not like you’ve tried to keep it secret so…”

“I suppose that’s true. Well, should we order food and then I can… show you my arse?

It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. And he’s just glad that Martin laughs at that and finds it just as ridiculous, rather than horrifying or something that makes him run away and never return. 

It eases things. Martin seems much more comfortable, and they order food to be delivered. Once the order is placed, Jon stands up decisively and holds his hand out towards Martin.

“Shall we?”

“You’re so romantic,” Martin says, a hint of teasing in the words. Still, he takes Jon’s hand and lets Jon pull him up to his feet. He thinks that Martin likes that, having Jon help him up like he weighs nothing when Jon knows that he’s insecure about his size, so Jon tries to do it whenever he can. 

Martin keeps hold of his hand as they head into the bedroom, and Jon doesn’t want him to let go, so that works out nicely. It’s not much of a place really, definitely not the enormous room that Elias has, but Jon had bought a nice mattress when he moved in, and the bed has a sturdy wooden frame because once upon a time he’d thought he might find someone who would want to stay over and share things with him, and god, that had been laughable, hadn’t it? Stupid Jon, never able to figure out how to make things work with another person, not outside of carefully defined rules and structures, and who wants to deal with that and-

“Jon?”

He blinks at Martin and realises that he’s stopped in the doorway to the bedroom. “Oh- Sorry. I just-“

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Martin says, and his smile is painfully genuine and for a moment Jon feels like he’s nineteen again, at university, with a very nice girl telling him the same thing, and then finding out later she’d been laughing with her friends about what a virgin he was because he’d assumed she’d meant it.

Martin’s hand closes around his wrist more tightly and he moves to stand in front of Jon. “Jon, come on, talk to me.”

Jon sucks in a breath, one two three, and holds it, one two three, release two three, and thinks of the lovely static in his head last night when the sharp flick of a cane had blurred everything else into soft focus.

He opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember closing them, and Martin is still there, brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m alright,” Jon says.

“You don’t look alright. Was this a bad idea? We could have me stay over another night if that’s better.”

“No!” Jon says, and his own vehemence surprises him. He really doesn’t want Martin to leave. “No,” he repeats. “I want you to stay here. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

“You have?” Martin asks, the frown melting away into a pleased, shy smile. 

Jon softens immediately. That expression apparently works pretty well to clear the coiling jagged thoughts out of his brain, at least temporarily. “Of course. I don’t invite people to visit if I don’t mean it.”

“Alright then,” Martin replies after a moment, and gives a firm nod.

Jon twines his fingers with Martin’s again and steps into the bedroom, drawing him towards the bed. And then, he reaches for the button of his trousers and starts to unfasten them. Martin settles on the edge of the bed, and Jon can feel him watching. It isn’t uncomfortable though. The way Martin looks at him feels- not like Elias exactly, whose looks at the start of a night are considering and almost clinical. But it isn’t lust either, or indifference, no weighing Jon up to see if he meets Martin’s approval.

It makes it easier to lie down on the bed on his belly and then shove his underwear off so Martin can see the state of his arse.

“You can look,” he says, and then buries his face against the pillow. 

“O-okay,” Martin says.

Jon can feel the bed move along with Martin, dipping and shifting.

“It looks painful, Jon.”

“Yes, that is rather the point,” Jon replies, affection making the words less sharp than they might have been for anyone else.

There’s a hiss of indrawn breath. “Can I touch?”

“If you want to,” Jon agrees. 

It seems to take forever before Martin touches him, a long, drawn out moment, and then the lightest touch of fingers that Jon might not even have recognised as a touch if he hadn’t been waiting for it.

“Does that hurt?” Martin asks.

“No. You need to press a little harder for that.”

“Well, tell me if I do press too hard,” he says firmly. “You’re all bruised up, Jon.”

“I should hope so,” Jon mutters. “I’d hate to think that Elias had lost his touch.” Finding someone else willing to put up with his quirks and needs in that sphere of things would be irritating and probably futile. 

Martin makes a soft noise and Jon can’t work out if it’s a laugh or pain. His fingers stroke over the bruises and welts, just hard enough for Jon to feel. It makes the hairs on his arms stand on end, and a shiver runs down his spine. 

The touch stops immediately. “Sorry, Jon! Did I press too hard?”

Jon rolls over onto his side so he can look at Martin. He feels a bit ridiculous like this, arse bare, but still wearing his shirt buttoned up nearly to the collar. “No. Not at all.”

When did he start feeling breathless like this?

Martin must catch something in his expression, because his cheeks go pink. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

Jon gives a mute nod.

Martin bites down on his bottom lip, and then gives a short half-nod, like he’s made up his mind about something. He reaches out then, and rests a hand on Jon’s hip to nudge him back over. Jon goes without any resistance at all and he stretches out, arms beneath his head.

Martin’s touch is firmer this time, not enough to hurt, but enough to promise hurt. It’s quite a thrilling line to toe. He runs a finger over each welt, that Jon knows from experience must be a lurid red right now, in between the bruises. Then he lays a hand flat against one of Jon’s arse cheeks, pressing just a little. It’s warm and broad, softer than Elias’ by a long way, and lovely for it.

Jon breathes for a few seconds and then presses up against Martin’s hand. It pushes his hand more firmly against Jon’s backside, and heat and hurt spreads through him, a perfect throbbing ache. Jon gasps, and lets out a noise that must sound obscene. For a moment, his mind is blissfully clear.

Martin pulls away as though he’s been burned. His eyes when Jon looks at him, are very wide. But he doesn’t look horrified. If anything, he looks intrigued. Confused too, but there’s definitely something else there.

“Sorry. I should have asked first,” Jon says, and the contrition is real. It’s not fair of him to drag Martin into something, without asking first. There was just a thrill at the thought of Martin doing- well, a thrill at the thought of Martin in general.

“You should have,” Martin agrees. He reaches out again, though, and this time, when his fingers land on Jon’s arse, they squeeze.

Jon cries out and arches into the touch, burying his face against his forearms. “Fuck, Martin.”

Everything feels sharp for a few seconds, and Jon can hear Martin’s breath coming a little faster, the scuff of denim on denim as he rubs his thighs together. “I want to see it, Jon.”

The words don’t register immediately. It takes time for them to filter through Jon’s untidy psyche. “See what?”

“If it makes you feel good, then I’m fine with it, Jon, but I want to see it for myself, that it’s good for you.”

“You- you want to watch me and Elias?” 

Martin’s expression is stubborn when he nods. “Yes. Not to interfere!” he adds quickly. “But it’s important to you, and I want to understand that, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh.” God, he sounds stupid. Is that all that he can muster when Martin has said something like this, wanted to understand part of Jon’s life that Jon had always assumed would be hidden and tolerated at best?

“It was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?” Martin says, and he shrinks in on himself, like a wilted flower.

“No,” Jon says, quickly. He rolls over, ignores the flare of hurt when he rests his weight on his arse, and grabs Martin’s hand between both of his. “No, it’s not a stupid idea. I’ve just never had anyone ask before and- I can arrange that.”

“Are you sure? I don’t know your Elias and it might be weird to have someone watching while he’s doing… stuff to you.”

Jon snorts softly. “He’s not my anything. He has a husband. We play together and we’re-“ He has to stop to consider his relationship with Elias. There is intimacy there, but it’s not comparable to this thing between him and Martin. Or between Jon and any of his previous partners for that matter. “He’s my Dom, I suppose. Kink partner? And honestly, I can’t imagine that being watched is even close to the weirdest thing he’s done.”

He’s seen Elias at a few club nights and there is a reason why people pay him thousands for his time. He would be so far out of Jon’s league if Elias hadn’t taken a liking to him.

Martin searches his face and then nods. “Alright. If you’re sure. I’d like to see.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow and arrange something,” Jon says.

The smile Martin gives him warms him right through, and he leans in to press a soft kiss against Martin’s lips. Martin makes a noise of surprise and then kisses back, his lips softening against Jon’s. It’s a gentle thing, closed mouthed because Martin always remembers that Jon isn’t a fan of tongues and saliva, and if he minds that long deep makeout sessions are a no go then he’s done a damn good job of hiding it.

A bell sounds through the flat and Jon pulls away reluctantly. “I think that’s the food.”

Martin kisses him again, harder this time, and then reluctantly pulls away when the bell sounds a second time. “Typical.”

“I’ll go get it,” Jon says and moves to stand up.

He’s taken a couple of steps before Martin grabs him and pulls him back down onto the bed. 

“Martin. I would definitely rather be kissing you but the food is-“

“Jon,” Martin says firmly, “you don’t have any underwear on.”

—————

“I need to tell you something.” Jon twists his fingers around and around in his ratty t-shirt, but he doesn’t look away. He owes Georgie this much at least.

Georgie sets aside the novel she’s reading for class and gives him her full attention. Which he sort of wishes she wouldn’t because she can be very intense when she does that and it makes him feel guilty for trying to be honest. And honesty is good, right? “I wondered when you were going to say something,” she says. “You’ve been fidgeting all night.”

Oh. Right. He had, hadn’t he? He wishes she weren’t so observant sometimes.

“I- uh- Georgie, I think I’m asexual.”

Georgie’s brow furrows a bit as she considers that, and Jon waits with bated breath for her to break it off with him. 

“Explain,” she says instead, which is good! It’s better than being dumped. But it also means that he has to actually… explain.

“I’m not attracted to you. Sexually, I mean.” Oh god why does he always pick the worst possible thing he could have said? 

“Are you dumping me?” Georgie asks.

“No! God no, Georgie I- love you. I just- I did some reading and it explains a few things and I think- I like you a lot. I just don’t think I feel attraction to people. I don’t ever look at someone and feel ‘I really want to have sex with them’.”

And now that he listens to himself, it sounds stupid. He’s probably delusional, making things up to try to explain away his own deficiencies. 

“Jonathan Sims, I know you have had sex with people. We’ve had sex.” She sounds… confused. That’s expected. Jon’s confused too. But it feels right. Bisexual feels right too, but asexual fills a part of him that he hadn’t known was missing, but had gaped open every time someone spoke about how much they’d like to shag someone they’d seen in passing on the bus.

“I know,” Jon says. “I’ve enjoyed it too! Don’t get me wrong. But apparently for most people sex is more than curiosity and finding sensations interesting. And because you like it, of course.”

“Well… yeah, I suppose so,” Georgie says, and she’s switched to analytical mode now, the way she gets when something in a book catches her attention, and her eyes narrow and her lips twist up at the edges with the thought of working out something new. It’s lovely to see. “I see someone hot and there’s definitely a spark there. I think about what it would be like to rip their clothes off.”

“Right! I don’t think I’ve ever felt that.”

“I know you’ve had one-night stands, Jon.”

“I have. But it was never… I thought it was just what people did.” He gives a strangled laugh. “All this time and I thought everyone was just having sex because of- of academic interest. Or that at some point there’d be a switch that flipped and I’d suddenly understand why people in movies absolutely had to have sex now while buildings explode around them.”

“To be fair, Jon,” Georgie says, and there’s an amused note to her voice now, “I don’t think the latest James Bond movie is a good measure of an average person’s sexuality.”

She might be right on that one.

“But I get your point,” she continues. “So does this mean you’ve been forcing yourself to have sex with me? Because Jon, that’s not okay, for either of us.”

“No! No, not at all! I enjoy it. I like being close to you, and it feels good. But it had the same urgency as- as a nice meal.”

“I’m not sure whether I should feel insulted,” Georgie says, but he can tell that the tension is broken. “Alright. Thank you for telling me, Jon. We can talk about it more when I’ve finished my reading for tomorrow if you like?”

“That- that sounds wonderful.” He leans in to kiss Georgie gently, and she kisses back, her fingers twisting into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Jon.”

—————

“I don’t see why not,” Elias says when Jon calls him the next day. “I’d be delighted to finally meet your Martin. You could come for dinner.”

“I’m not bringing him home to meet my parents, Elias,” Jon says. 

“True. I’ve never really been interested in being called Daddy, but if that is something that you wish to explore, Jon…”

Oh god, Jon is going to die right now, in the park where he’d gone to eat lunch while the weather was nice, and when they investigate his flat they’ll discover that the last thing he did was listen to the Archers so he can bicker with Daisy about it at work on Monday.

And that the last person he called was a man who runs a BDSM dungeon for a living, but at least that was interesting!

“No.” The word comes out squeaky and awkward, like the boys in school had sometimes got when looking at dirty magazines. Jon had never understood it, but he had admitted that some of the women in them looked lovely, like classical sculpture. “No, I do not want to explore that, Elias, please…”

Elias chuckles. “Whatever you say Jon. I have bookings this weekend, so that’s not possible, but let me know your schedule and I’m sure we can work something out.”

Jon lets out a breath. “Thank you, Elias. I know it’s an imposition and I-“

“Jon,” Elias says sharply, and Jon sits up straighter on the park bench just hearing it, immediately at attention. “I do not waste my time on people. If you were an imposition, then the only way you’d be seeing me would be with a hefty deposit. I spend time with you because I enjoy it. Am I understood?”

Heat pricks at Jon’s eyes, and his throat feels tight. Elias is prickly, and aloof, and arrogant, and he isn’t lying about this. Jon has to swallow a few times before he can speak. 

“Yes, Sir,” he says, the word slipping out of him unthinkingly.

“Very good,” Elias replies and his voice has softened. “Now, finish your lunch, then go home and wrap yourself in a blanket and email me your availability. I have a few ideas I want to discuss with you, and of course, if you need something more-“

“I’ll tell you,” Jon says. His face heats up a bit at the thought. They haven’t done many sessions over text or voice chat, but Elias likes to check up on him after scenes. Sometimes it’s just aftercare, making sure that Jon has eaten and is taking care of himself. And sometimes, if Elias and Jon have both been busy and can’t meet up for a while, things go a little further. Elias can do incredible things with just his voice.

“Good boy.” The praise warms Jon through. “I’ll speak to you later.” And then he hangs up.

Jon stares at the phone screen for a moment, and then remembers the instructions. Food, home, blanket, email. A nice simple set of instructions. 

With a soft sigh, he reaches for the bag with his lunch in it.

—————

The club is actually nicer than most clubs Jon has been to. Sure, there’s a woman on stage tied to a large St. Andrew’s cross with thick cuffs, and there’s a lot more leather and rubber in the outfits than you’d find in a normal nightclub, but on the upside, no-one is drunk and there’s a definite attitude of hands off unless given explicit permission, which Jon appreciates.

There’s an interesting display in the main room of the club, with various bondage methods being showcased; everything from specialist tape, to rope, to heavy duty cuffs. The man and the woman doing the demo look to be having a wonderful time. 

He drifts off wanders off eventually when the noise and the press of people start to make his head feel untidy, squeezing through the crowds of people to try to find somewhere a bit less busy.

He shouldn’t have come. This was stupid. God, what if he runs into someone he knows here? He’d thought that starting fresh in London, away from everyone he’d ever known in Oxford would be good, that it would help.

It hadn’t helped. Rumours still fly, relationships still fall apart. Jon Sims, making things up about being asexual to hide the fact that he can’t get it up, or he’s afraid of sex, or he’s just messed up. Charming.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe he is just fucked up. Or trying to be special somehow, like how he always had to be top of the class in school because it was the only thing that he had going for him.

He shakes his head and ducks into a side room which seems quieter than the others. There are seats set up facing the stage. Nearly all of them are filled. But the people are watching too intently to talk.

There’s a stand there on the stage, looks like one of the pommel horses they had in the gym for PE class, except the pommel horse in the gym had never had someone bent over it, face down and cuffed to it and moaning while the man behind them strikes their bare arse with a paddle. 

The man doing the paddling is tall and dark haired. He seems oddly dressed compared to everyone else, in a crisply pressed suit, although the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and expose muscled arms. He’s wearing a pair of black high heels and Jon has never seen anyone manage to make stiletto heels look so masculine.

The man in the suit stops after a couple of blows and sets the paddle aside. “As you can see, the paddle leaves a broad mark, but because of the strike area, they tend to be shallower strikes. Not much chance of breaking the skin unless you catch someone with the edge. And if you do that,” he says, with a wry smirk, “then you need to apologise and get better at what you’re doing. Now… let’s take a look at some canes.”

Jon doesn’t leave. He leans against the wall at the back of the room, and watches this man demonstrate tool after tool on the tied up person, showing off all of the different marks that can be made. 

Jon’s not a stranger to spanking. He’s tried it a few times with various partners, albeit at much less reputable places than this. But even with his limited experience, he can tell that this man is skilled. it’s in the way he walks, the way he holds each tool as though it is as familiar to him as breathing. 

Jon doesn’t move, even when the display ends and people start to drift off. He watches the man check on the person he’d been spanking, before leading them away into a side room. A few people are lingering, and Jon takes the opportunity to sit down and breathe in the quiet. 

“You seemed to enjoy the show.”

Jon startles, and looks around to find the man there. He’s leaning over the back of the chair next to Jon, and regards him with a penetrating stare.

“Oh, yes. It was very informative.”

He sounds like an idiot.

“I’m glad to hear it. Was there anything that particularly caught your eye?”

Jon squirms in his seat. He feels like he’s being put on the spot, even though the man isn’t even that close (Jon sort of wishes he would be that close). “I don’t know. I don’t really- I’m very new at this.”

“We all have to start somewhere,” the man says, and his voice softens just a little. He smiles and gestures to the chair. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No. Go ahead.”

He walks around and settles into the chair, stretching his legs out in front of himself. He’s still wearing those heels.

“Forgive my impoliteness. I’m Elias Bouchard. Pleased to meet you.”

He holds out a hand, and it’s such a normal gesture that it takes Jon a moment to realise what he’s supposed to do. The man- Elias’ hand, when Jon shakes it, is warm and soft and smooth and very dry considering how warmsweaty it must have been, standing up there under the spotlights.

“Jonathan Sims.”

“Well, Jon, if you need anything here, please feel free to ask me. You’ve rather caught my interest, if you’ll forgive the bluntness.”

“I have?” 

“Oh yes, the way you watched what was happening… it was quite intense.”

Jon swallows thickly. “Well- it was a good show.”

Elias laughs, and when he does, the corners of his eyes crease up into lovely crows feet. “Glad to hear it. Here, let me give you my card.”

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a slim silver case, from which he produces a business card. It’s very professional looking, not a sign of whips or chains on it. Just ‘Elias Bouchard’ and underneath that, a handwritten number. “If you ever want to try something, feel free to contact me. Or speak to the club if that’s more comfortable. They can arrange things. Now, lovely Jonathan, I have to go prepare for a client. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“I- Thank you. Have a good evening too.” When in doubt, resort to pleasantries. 

He sits there until the next tutorial arrives, and then heads off home, the card clutched in his hand for the entire journey.

—————

The Day, as Jon has come to think of it, capital letter and all, arrives with alarming speed, and before he knows it, he’s standing outside of Elias’ detached townhouse, on a leafy central London street, with Martin next to him.

“Holy shit,” Martin says, staring at the building. “I was expecting a grubby warehouse or a nightclub or something. Not this. He must be loaded!”

“Considering what he gets paid, I think that’s a reasonable assumption,” Jon replies. He doesn’t know any of Elias’ clients; he is a paragon of discretion and Jon has no desire to sour their relationship, but Jon suspects that the people who hire Elias Bouchard are the types who pay a premium for that skill and discretion.

“I wish I’d know,” Martin says, and looks down at his slacks and white shirt. “I’d have dressed up nicer. I would have worn a suit!”

Jon turns to press a kiss against the side of Martin’s head. “It’s fine, Martin. You look lovely. And we aren’t exactly going to a restaurant. You’ll want to be comfortable.”

“If you say so,” Martin replies. He slides his hand into Jon’s and gives it a squeeze. Jon squeezes back. “Should we go in?”

“I’d hate to have organised this for us to just stand on the street corner all evening,” Jon says, dust dry.

Martin rolls his eyes and elbows him lightly in the side, then takes a decisive step forward. His expression is set into one of grim determination, like he’s going to a job interview rather than to see his boyfriend get tied up and naked.

The entrance has a large metal gate with an intercom on it. Jon presses the button and peers into the camera. “It’s Jon.”

There’s no response, but the intercom gives a soft beep, followed by the click of the gate unlocking. Jon pushes it open just enough to slide through, and Martin follows him.

The garden is pristine, like everything else in the house, with perfectly manicured lawns and lush neat flowerbeds. There’s no obscene topiary, or any sign that the house belongs to someone in Elias’ line of work. It’s exactly the sort of garden that you’d expect to find at one of these houses. 

They reach the end of the gravel path, and Martin turns to head towards the large front door. Jon stops him though, and heads up along a less obvious path that leads to the back door. “It’s this way. The back door is a bit more discrete.”

He knocks when he gets there, and it’s only a few seconds before it’s opened. The man there is not Elias. He’s broader, and a bit taller than Elias, with a thick grey-white beard, and neatly combed hair.

“Ah, Jon,” he says, “and this must be Martin. Elias is somewhere. He’s been very excited.”

“Hello, Peter,” Jon says. “Martin, this is Peter. Elias’ husband.”

“Uh- hello,” Martin says, and alright, now that Jon thinks about it, meeting the husband of the man who ties your boyfriend up for BDSM sessions regularly is probably a bit weird. 

“Marvellous,” Peter says and then stands aside. “Come in, come in. Make yourselves comfortable. There’s food on the table.”

Jon slips off his shoes by the door, and Martin follows suit, then Peter guides them into the enormous airy kitchen. Jon’s sags a bit in relief. He knows that there’s a more formal parlour on this floor, where Elias likes to meet clients, or where he summons Jon when Jon’s feeling in a particularly submissive mood. The kitchen is much more homely. There’s an Aga and one of those racks that hangs from the ceiling to put pans and dishtowels on, which seem to be the only way rich people know how to make a place homely, but it does work.

The kitchen table is one of those heavy antique wooden ones, probably a leftover from whenever the house had servants rather than Subs. It’s laid out with platters of food; little sandwiches and plates of fancy Italian cured meats and Jon can just imagine the numbers racking up on a Fortnum and Mason account. From the expression on Martin’s face, he feels the same way.

There’s already a teapot and delicate china cups and saucers laid out for them. Peter sits down heavily on one of the chairs, and beams when Jon does the same. Martin is a little slower, but after a moment’s uncertainty, he pulls a chair over close to Jon and sits down.

“This is very- I wasn’t expecting all this,” Martin says.

“Nonsense,” Peter says. “It’s the least we can do when we finally get to meet the man Jon has been talking about for months.”

“He- he has?” Martin asks, a delighted smile creeping over his face at the same time as Jon’s cheeks are turning red from embarrassment. For a man so good at making himself scarce, Peter is remarkably good at being very present when he wants to be.

“Oh, absolutely. Elias says that sometimes he has to gag Jon to get him to stop talking! Tea?”

Martin nearly chokes, and Jon knows that he is never even going to get to the Guest Room because he is going to die right here and now at the table and they’ll have to peel slices of prosciutto and squashed petit fours off his corpse.

“Where is Elias anyway?” he manages to get out as Peter pours tea for them. Under the table he laces his fingers with Martin’s again, and gives him a reassuring smile. 

“I’m right here, Jon.”

Elias’ voice comes from behind him, and Jon and Martin both jump. 

Peter smiles widely, obviously finding it the most amusing joke. “Ah, there you are, Elias.”

Jon doesn’t look around, but Martin cranes his neck to see.

There’s that tap, tap, tap of heels across the wooden floor, a sound that makes Jon automatically sit up straighter, and lean forward in anticipation.

At first glance, Elias is dressed fairly conservatively, in his usual suit; a lighter grey today, with a white shirt, collar buttoned up. Apart from the heels, you’d think he was planning to go to work in Canary Wharf. And then Jon realises that it isn’t a waistcoat he’s wearing underneath the suit jacket, it’s a corset, cinched tightly and made with a pinstripe pattern. It drags in Elias’ waist, and combined with the heels makes him seem much taller and slimmer and in perfect control.

“It’s good to meet you at last, Martin,” Elias says and holds out his hand.

Martin takes it, obviously intending to shake it, but Elias pulls it to his lips and presses a light kiss against Martin’s knuckles instead. 

“Y-you too, Mr. Bouchard. Jon has told me lots about you.”

Jon’s impressed with how together Martin sounds. Elias has brought people to their knees like this before. Martin squeezes Jon’s fingers again.

“Please, call me Elias,” Elias says. He sits down in the chair next to Peter’s and manages to do it elegantly despite the corset and heels. He leans in to kiss Peter, and Peter strokes a hand down his cheek. “Or Sir,” Elias adds, casting a glance towards Jon. “You can always call me Sir.”

Martin makes a soft noise. “I think I’ll hold off,” he says. “I’m not here to play, Elias. I’m just here to make sure that Jon is okay.”

“An admirable thing to do,” Elias says, and sounds a touch more serious. There’s a subtle change in the way he sits, in the way his eyes narrow and fix on Martin. “I would of course be happy to answer any questions that you have. I would be happy to give you a copy of my first aid certification as well as showing you the facilities.”

“You have that?” Martin asks.

“Of course. I am a professional. People pay me rather large sums of money to fulfil certain desires that they have. And part of that job is making sure they leave here in one piece, mentally and physically.” He smiles slightly. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be getting paid for very long.”

There’s a crease drawn between Martin’s eyes as he considers that. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Elias replies. He reaches out and plucks a grape from the pile of them on the cheeseboard. He regards it for a moment, and then pops it into his mouth. “Any other questions?”

“So many,” Martin says. He glances at Jon. “Is this okay?”

He gives Martin a reassuring look. “I brought you here, didn’t I? Better than me, stumbling in with too few questions.”

Or at least all the wrong questions, and too many assumptions. 

“There is that,” Elias says, an amused curl to his lips which only widens when Jon scowls at him. “People have misconceptions and biases regarding what I do. I would much rather answer honest questions than allow you to go away believing falsehoods, Martin.”

That seems to ease Martin, and Jon as well, honestly. Elias has little time for people looking for salacious stories and slander, and it’s a relief that he’s decided that Martin is asking the right questions.

“What about STIs?” Martin asks next, looking warily at Elias. “If you have lots of clients and you’re- you’re having sexual contact with Jon too-“

Jon chokes on his tea and has to set the dainty cup down. Martin gasps and pats his back. Jon winces and waves him off, clearing his throat. “That- ugh- that isn’t an issue.”

Martin looks between Jon and Elias. “But, I thought-“

Elias just leans forward, chin resting on his hand and an elbow on the table. “An easy mistake to make. I find sex… distasteful.” He has that expression on his face, the one that makes him look like an offended cat, part sneer and part horror. “If I do feel that contact with genitalia is warranted for a scene, I wear gloves and take all necessary precautions. Everything is cleaned and sterilised in between uses, or disposed of if that isn’t possible. Does that satisfy?”

“Oh,” Martin says. “I’m sorry I just-“

“Most people do,” Elias replies. “It isn’t a common profession for someone with an aversion to sex, but I make it work.” His smile brightens a little and he sits back in his chair. “Now, why don’t you eat up and then I can show you first hand what Jon and I do together.”

The look he gives Jon is predatory, and Jon shifts on his chair, already anticipating whatever Elias has planned for him.

Jon eats sparingly. It’s difficult with excitement rolling in his stomach, and the last thing he wants is to feel sick in the middle of a scene. But Elias has impressed upon him the importance of having something beforehand. It is good food though, and Martin drags his chair a bit closer and rests his hand against Jon’s knee and smiles at him.

The conversation ends up something close to normal, even with Elias sprawling there in heels and corset. And Peter and Elias are good hosts; they ask Martin polite questions about himself, his job, his hobbies. Martin answers gladly enough, asks them about their garden, their lives.

Finally, Elias stands up. “I think it’s about time we got started, isn’t it Jon?”

Jon looks up sharply, sees the look in Elias’ eyes, and gives a nod. “Yes, Sir.”

“Very good.” Elias kisses Peter’s cheek and then turns his attention back to them. “Shall we?”

Jon has climbed the stairs up to the Guest Room a hundred times before, and it still makes his stomach flip in excitement and trepidation. Martin hurries to catch up as they follow Elias and bumps his shoulder against Jon’s.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice soft with concern.

Jon manages a smile. “Yes. I’m fine, Martin. I just- am starting to get into the right headspace.”

Martin nods. “Alright. If you’re sure.” He glances up towards Elias ahead of them, climbing the stairs with no sign of discomfort or awkwardness in the heels. “Felt like I was meeting your parents or something with the questions they were asking. Like they were checking I was good enough for you.”

He hears the slight tremor in Martin’s voice, and stops dead on the stairs. “You are good enough,” he says earnestly, and leans in to kiss him softly. “You’re perfect. I don’t deserve you.”

Martin kisses back, his hand coming to rest against Jon’s neck. “Don’t say that,” he chides gently when they part. “It isn’t about deserving anything.”

Elias clears his throat, and raises an eyebrow when the two of them look up at him. “Heart-warming as this is, we do have somewhere to be.”

And he sets off up the stairs again, with seemingly every expectation of being followed.

“He does realise that I’m not his Sub, right?” Martin asks.

Jon shrugs. “I’m not sure there’s anyone he doesn’t consider a sub by some measure, honestly.”

He kisses Martin again briefly and then continues walking up the stairs to the Guest Room. 

“Ready?” he asks Martin when they’re standing by the open door. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Martin replies.

Jon takes a breath, another breath, slow in and out, and steps inside.

Elias has already set up for the evening based on what they’d discussed over email. The table from last time is gone, shoved over against the wall, leaving a wide empty space, and he’s moved the couch into the perfect viewing spot, along with a selection of snacks and soft drinks. There’s a smaller table nearby, with various pots and an electric water bath set up. And on a stand next to the table, neatly coiled, are several colourful ropes.

He smiles when they enter and gestures to the couch. “Very good. Martin why don’t you take a seat and we’ll get started?” 

Martin nods and presses a kiss to Jon’s cheek before going to sit down. He perches right on the edge of the sofa, ready to come and tear Jon away at the first of mistreatment. God, Jon loves him.

“Thank you,” Elias says. “I would appreciate it if you refrained from interrupting during the scene unless given explicit permission.” He’s got his formal voice on. The one Jon has seen him use when negotiating with newcomers to the clubs he frequents. 

“I can do that,” Martin says, seriously.

“Excellent. Now, Jon. You remember what we discussed?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jon says. He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and then back, and now that he’s here, he can feel that itch under his skin, the need to let Elias take him apart and put him back together until his thoughts are quiet and calm. 

“And are you still amenable to that?”

He gives a quick nod, and then follows it up with his words. “I am.”

“Very good. Any medical needs I should be aware of?” 

“Nothing that’s changed since last time,” Jon replies.

“You know that I like to be thorough,” Elias says.

“I know,” Jon replies, his voice softening. Elias always checks, always makes sure. It’s incredibly reassuring even if it’s a little annoying at times.

“And your safe word?”

“Spider,” Jon says. He casts a glance over at Martin who gives a small smile at that; he’s had to remove more than one arachnid from Jon’s sight.

Elias nods and steps over to him. He’s much taller in the heels, and he peers down at Jon. it leaves Jon’s heart thumping thumping thumping in his chest as Elias cups his jaw and then smooths a hand down his neck. 

“I think you should get ready,” he says, and it isn’t a suggestion. “We have a lot to get through.”

“Yes, Sir.”

There’s a tremble that works its way through his body, and he feels the weight of the scene and Elias’ expectations fall upon him like a heavy blanket. It’s a safe weight though, a comforting one. It is an expectation that does not require responsibility, or threaten any consequences beyond those agreed between them. 

There’s a little area curtained off at the back of the room and Jon heads to that now. He brushes his fingers over Martin’s as he passes, and Martin curls their fingers together briefly. He looks curious more than anything. Jon wonders how strange it is for Martin to see Jon acquiescing so easily, when all too often he makes everything into a struggle. 

He strips off quickly, and folds his clothes into one of the cubby holes Elias has there for that purpose. With Martin there in the room, he feels a bit awkward walking back to Elias, on show in a way that he isn’t used to. Sure, he’s done things on a couple of the club nights, but no-one really knows him there. He’s just another face in the crowd and there’s a million other things for people to pay attention to. Here, it’s just Martin. Martin’s eyes on his naked body, taking in the sight of him.

Elias is doing something with the pots, but he turns when Jon arrives. 

“Good boy,” he says, and the warmth curls in Jon’s brain immediately. “Now, to get you properly attired. I think we’ll begin with a box tie.”

Jon had known that there was going to be rope, but the pronouncement still makes him shudder, and he sucks in a trembling breath.

Elias nudges him to stand facing Martin, where he can see Martin’s eyes on him, the way his tongue flicks out over his lips. Elias positions him like a painter would their model, coaxing him to fold his arms behind him, ready for the tie.

He hears the click of heels as Elias collects the rope, and then the next thing he knows is the soft scratch of it against his back as Elias drags the end of a piece over his skin. It’s good rope, Jon knows from experience, soft and as comfortable as rope can be. Elias gets it from a specialist supplier; Jon had looked it up once and hadn’t realised that there were so many different kinds. He wants to try to electroconductive rope at some point, but Elias has never seemed keen, citing bad experiences with erotic electrostim in the past. Jon had never felt interested enough to push for it.

The rope is wrapped around his arms a few times, tethering them together at mid back. It’s tight enough to be felt, a constant pressure, but comfortable. They don’t dig into his skin. The knot cinches the rope securely. Elias stands very close to him as he runs the rope up around his side and across the front of his body. He never moves from behind Jon, but he sees Martin’s gaze flick upwards to Elias’ face, and then back to where the rope lies across Jon’s skin. 

It’s purple, this rope, a deep plum colour that stands out against his skin. It feels somehow luxurious, just because of the colour, more than a simple brown or ashy grey would. Part of him likes the spectacle of it, even if normally there’s no-one to see but him and Elias.

And now there’s Martin. Martin who watches with rapt attention as Elias wraps the rope around his neck to meet the harness he’s forming, loops and knots against his skin and Martin never looks away, not even once. It’s incredibly intimate, even if Martin isn’t the one touching him.

Elias ties the final knot and then walks around Jon to admire his work. He tugs at the ropes, slides his fingers beneath them to test them, checks knots and adjusts the positioning just a little. 

“Well, aren’t you a sight?” he says finally. He’s standing behind Jon, and he leans in to rest his chin against Jon’s shoulder, his breath tickling Jon’s ear. “All trussed up like this, like a gift just made to do whatever I want with you.”

He gives a soft hum of pleasure and grasps the back of Jon’s neck, like scruffing a kitten, and presses him down. “On your knees Jon, it’s where you belong.”

He lets out a soft moan at that, and complies, sinking slowly down, Elias controlling the speed. His gaze darts up to Martin, trying to gauge his reaction. Martin’s eyes are wide, his lips parted, and there’s a pink flush on his cheeks. And he looks like that because of Jon. At least he hopes its because of him rather than because his boyfriend has developed a crush on Elias. The teasing would be unbearable from both Elias and Peter if that was the case.

Elias’ hand threads into his hair. His nails scratch lightly against Jon’s scalp for a moment before they twist and pull his head back so he’s staring up at Elias, back bent so he can feel the strain of it, the pull in his arms and across his stomach and chest.

Elias scrutinises him, and then smiles. “Chest, I think. Give Martin a good look at you.”

Jon hears a noise, like a whimper, and it isn’t coming from him. He can’t look, with Elias’ hand in his hair, but he thinks it’s Martin. Elias must think the same because he looks up towards the couch.

He releases Jon’s hair, and Jon’s eyes drop closed at the tingle that he leaves in his wake. Jon looks down, moves his head to relieve some of the ache in his neck, and shifts his weight from knee to knee.

Martin’s looking at him still, staring at the ropes. He doesn’t look horrified, or disgusted, which Jon is taking as a win. He looks… the way he’s looking at Jon makes him want to cry a bit because he’d never imagined someone would look at him like that.

Elias’ hand glides down his thigh and over his calf, making him jump. "Steady," he says and he gives Jon's calf a reassuring squeeze. "How are you doing Jon?"

It takes him a second to register that he should be speaking and he manages to grind out a breathless, “Green.”

"Good," Elias says. "Legs apart."

He nudges his foot between Jon's legs to spread them wide, leaving him exposed. He feels very vulnerable like this, with Martin looking at him. But Martin smiles at him and it's so full of warmth that he can't feel awkward for long.

The rope slides under one leg and Elias deftly starts to work it into a hobble, crisscrossing it from leg to leg until standing would be impossible. He can wiggle his legs a little closer together, but not further apart.

“Just one more,” Elias says. He pats Jon’s shoulder as he fetches the last piece of rope.

The last rope Elias attaches around his arms again, and then uses it like a leash to tug him back, bent over enough for him to feel the curve of his spine. Elias tethers the rope to one of the cross-ropes between his legs, fixing him in that bent-back position. It puts a strain on his shoulders, one that permeates every thought. It’s enough to keep his mind occupied, to stop it drifting onto other topics. He can feel that lovely static creeping in so it’s just him and his body. 

He feels like he’s drifting, and that’s when Elias touches him, a hand pressed against his chest, a finger running the length of his sternum. 

“He looks lovely, doesn’t he, Martin?”

“He- yes. He does.”

The words filter through Jon’s mind, but softly, like clouds, and just as distant. They’re not addressed to him, so they don’t really seem relevant. 

“He’ll look even better by the end.”

The hand leaves him, and Jon tugs idly at the bindings, feeling the tug of them against his wrists and ankles, across his chest. There’s the vague sound of movement, but he lets it drift over him.

Elias stands in front of him and cups Jon’s cheek with one hand. He has something in the other hand, but Jon pays it no mind and leans into the hand against his cheek, nuzzling against it. Elias laughs softly, a warm sound, and laughs more when Jon whines as he pulls his hand away. It’s terribly rude, Jon thinks absently, but the thought is fleeting, washed away with the tense and flex of ropes and sinew and muscle. 

And then his chest is on fire. A line of heat stripes across it, followed by a shrinking, clinging sensation. Jon cries out, a rough gasp at the shock. It’s followed by another; a wet feeling that morphs into heat that sucks at his skin.

Then it fades, leaving just warmth and a delicious soreness that sends his thoughts skittering into new shapes like a kaleidoscope.

“Colour, Jon.”

Elias’ tone is clipped, sharp enough to catch Jon’s attention. He blinks up at him, shapes his mouth around the word. “Green. God… green.”

“Very good.” 

Jon blinks a few times, regains his bearings. Breathes in, two three, out, two, three.

The brush of hot wax runs over his nipple, and it wipes away thought once more.

He wonders if this is how a painting feels, the purpose in each stroke as Elias colours him in with heat. He picks away some of the wax to paint it again, layering the pain and spreading warmth until it feels like his whole chest is scalding. A stripe down his sternum, wax pooling in his navel and dripping down towards his cock. A curl of colour to trace out a collarbone, a line to trace the contours of the rope. Each hip anointed with stripes and dots until he should be locked away in a glass case for the world to admire. 

He feels admired. His eyes drop closed, but he can feel others on him. Elias, ever watchful, and that other set of eyes. Beloved. Rapt attention fixed on him like everything else has fallen away. 

It makes him laugh. The sound bubbles up inside him, fills his chest with delight, until it has to come out somehow, and in this case, it’s rapturous giggles that shake his body and send some of the lovely artwork splintering to the ground. 

“And that, I think, is a sign that we should stop,” Elias says.

Jon whines softly, because why should it stop when it feels this good? When everything is bright and soft and good away from the harsh lines of the world. But there’s a hand in his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp, and that feels good too.

The rope between his arms and legs is the first to go and Elias eases him back up. There’s a glorious satisfaction in the stretch of his spine mingling with the endorphins. He rocks on his knees until Elias stills him, a sort of pent up energy coursing through him, making everything soft and interesting. He can feel every fibre of the ropes around his limbs, and every faint imperfection of the black lino beneath his knees. When he blinks, every eyelash is noticed, and the whorls of his fingerprints scratch against his arms where they’re tied.

Slowly the ropes uncoil from around his arms, and there are hands rubbing them back to life, easing them down from where they’ve been held. The ache is present but distant, an absent consideration that belongs to someone else.

Once he’s freed, Elias scoops arms around him and picks him up. The world goes dizzying for a moment, but the softness of Elias’ shirt against his cheek is suitable recompense for that. 

He’s settled onto the couch, and the smooth leather and the faux fur of the cushions are another delightful addition to the wonderland of sensation. Smooth, then soft, then back to smooth.

“Is he alright?”

“He should be,” Elias says, fond amusement in his voice. “He drops quite hard and it can take a while for him to come back. It’s not dangerous if he’s taken care of.”

Oh, he knows that voice. It’s Martin! Martin is here, Martin had come to watch because of him, and that makes something warm squirm in his stomach. He looks over at him, and Martin looks so lovely in the light and Jon thinks he would like to touch every part of him and find out what that feels like.

His head ends up in Martin’s lap somehow, and he beams up at him. “Hey.”

“O-oh! Hey, Jon.”

“You’re comfy.”

“Thank you?”

Jon gives a hum of satisfaction and settles for rubbing his face against Martin’s stomach which is perfect and soft under his touch.

“Jon,” Elias says. 

“Mmmm?” Jon replies, not pulling away from Martin in any way.

Elias gives a fond sigh. “Jon, I’m very pleased with you.” Oh, that’s a good feeling. He likes pleasing Elias. Makes him feel warm. “I need you to count with me, alright? Can you do that?”

He frowns and then nods. He can do that. If it makes Elias happy, he can do that.

“Twenty,” Elias says, and the word is wonderfully solid in this soft place he’s in, with shapes that are easy to grasp hold of and start climbing.

“Twenty?”

“Very good. Nineteen.”

Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. He shifts to avoid an ache in his neck that has just made itself known. 

Fourteen. Thirteen. Martin’s hand drops to his hair, and Jon lets out a soft sigh and stretches.

Ten. Nine. He can feel each breath, a calm in and out which starts to bring everything back into focus.

Five. Four. Three. He rolls his shoulders, and blinks up at the ceiling. It’s black, and patterned with little LEDs like stars in between the main lights. It’s peaceful. Makes him drowsy.

Two. One.

He is Jonathan Sims again, back in his body and whole. He’s on the couch in Elias’ Guest Room, and Martin’s hands are in his hair and he is so happy he could cry.

He might actually cry a bit, because his face feels wet.

“Oh god, Jon, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Martin,” he says, and reaches up to scrub at the tears. “Just overwhelming.”

“How are you feeling, Jon?” Elias asks.

Jon pushes himself up slowly into a sitting position. The wax on his chest cracks and splinters as he does. Martin helps him up and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“I’m… good,” Jon says. “That was intense. I think it would be fun to be encased in wax sometime. We should try that.”

“Jon!” Martin gives him a flustered look, but his cheeks are red and he doesn’t look unhappy with the idea. 

“That is something that we can discuss,” Elias says. “Now, can you drink something?” He holds out a bottle of water to Jon, the straw already in place. Jon takes it obediently, and sips it slowly. He’d tried to gulp it after a scene once, and that had been unpleasant for a while. He’s learnt his lesson by now. It’s followed by a snack bar and some chocolate, that Jon chews on, letting the sugar help bring him back to himself. Once Jon is settled, Elias settles on the other end of the couch, and curls his fingers around one of Jon’s ankles. He kneads his thumb into the place where the rope had been tied. 

“Aftercare is of vital importance,” Elias says, and Jon gives him a puzzled look before realising that Elias is speaking to Martin. With that knowledge, he’s fine with settling back against Martin’s shoulder and eating. “The crash from adrenaline and endorphins can be quite harsh if not taken care of. Food and drink to replace lost fluids and avoid low blood sugar. “

“Nearly passed out once,” Jon says around a bite of cereal bar. “At the club, my first time with Elias.”

“He insisted that he was fine, and nearly keeled over halfway to the door. That is not something that I intend to allow a repeat of.” There is a tightness to Elias’ voice when he says it, a deep displeasure with the circumstances. Jon knows that a couple of people had been banned from the club after that, when Jon had explained who gave him the impression that being left wrecked was acceptable.

He pulls away from Martin briefly so he can press a kiss to Elias’ cheek and burrow his face into the crook of his shoulder for a moment. Elias is important and he takes such good care of him and he deserves to know that, Jon thinks. 

Elias strokes a hand down his back slowly a few times, and when he speaks again, his voice is back to normal, cool and amused, and it rumbles through Jon’s chest. “Alright. Shower now? Or bed?” 

“Mmmm, bed? Don’t want to stand right now.” He should get the wax off first, but he’s exhausted and can’t imagine being able to stay awake for long enough to pick it off right away.

“Of course,” Elias says. He nudges Jon back over to Martin. 

“Shouldn’t we- I mean, if we’re done, we could be out of your hair,” Martin says. His arms wrap around Jon and Jon cuddles up to him, trying to reassure him. Martin’s always anxious about this stuff, about taking advantage of people’s kindness. Jon can be too.

“Nonsense,” Elias says. “The spare room is already made up. Jon usually stays over and I check in the next day. At least stay for a couple of hours, let Jon recover.”

Martin’s finger strokes over Jon’s chest, and he picks idly at the solid wax. “Alright. That sounds like a plan.”

“Excellent,” Elias replies. “Jon, do you feel up to moving?”

Jon nods, and starts to stand. Elias is on his feet in a second, steadying him with an arm around his waist. Martin is just behind him, pressing up against his other side. Oh, he could get used to this.

Elias guides them to the guest bedroom and then scoops Jon up to deposit him on the bed. Jon clings to him a little. “Thank you, Elias.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Elias says. He tucks a strand of Jon’s hair back out of his face. 

“Will you spend time with Peter now?” Jon asks impulsively. He wouldn’t normally pry but… it feels different now, with Martin here. And he doesn’t want Elias to be alone.

Elias smiles. “I will. We have a dreadfully dull documentary to watch together.”

He stands back up and smooths down the front of his shirt, then faces Martin. “The bathroom is through there, and there are towels and toiletries. There are drinks and snacks in the cabinet. If you need anything else, feel free to come and find me, or there’s my number on the bedside table. The kitchen is at your disposal.”

Martin looks a little overwhelmed at all of that. “Thank you? I- I’ll let you know.”

Elias gives a satisfied nod and then leaves, closing the door softly behind himself.

Martin’s shoulders slump, and Jon sprawls out on his back on the soft bed. He’s still buzzing a little, and he wiggles on the bed to try to dispel some of that feeling.

“Well, that was a lot,” Martin says. “Are you sure that you’re alright?”

Jon looks over at him and tries to look as reassuring as he can. He’s not sure if he manages it or if he just gives Martin the softest, most smitten smile. 

“I’m lovely,” he says. And then he pats the bed insistently because suddenly Martin not being next to him is utterly intolerable and it needs to be fixed now.

Martin’s expression softens into something sweet and probably just as smitten as Jon feels. He sheds his trousers and climbs onto the bed next to him. Jon is instantly upon him, cuddling as close as he can and resting his head on Martin’s chest; the perfect level to have his hair petted if he does say so himself. Martin obviously agrees with him, and starts running his fingers through his hair.

“It was… you looked amazing, Jon,” Martin says. “I’ve never seen you like that before. You didn’t look worried at all, for once.”

Jon reaches up and picks at a bit of the wax on his chest. For a second, as it loosens and peels off, it reignites that burn and makes his mind glitch pleasantly. “It’s hard for me to think of much when I’m tied up, especially if I’m being caned, or having hot wax poured on me.”

“I imagine that does make it hard to think of much else,” Martin says. “Do you enjoy it though? I mean, you got hard, but you didn’t come. I thought… well, I just want to make sure.”

Jon blinks slowly at him. “I didn’t even notice getting hard, honestly,” he says, and that’s true enough. Most of the time, even if he does, it’s not something he pays much attention to. It just isn’t what he’s there for. The times it does become an issue, it’s usually because Elias wants it to become an issue.

“Apparently not,” Martin says, and his voice is fond. “What do you get out of it then?”

Jon chews on his lip for a moment, trying to figure out the right words to use. “It makes my brain go all staticky. I don’t have to think of anything except what’s happening here and now. There’s just my body and the sensation of it. It’s nice.”

Martin hums softly, and keeps up that gentle petting. It makes Jon feel reassured enough to continue.

“My brain goes too fast sometimes. And I get stuck in loops until a bad thing is all I can think about and this… helps. It’s like a reset button. Healthier than some stuff I used to do. And it’s just… fun,” he adds, quickly. “I like trying things. New things. All the different sensations.”

Martin is silent for several seconds, and Jon shrinks in on himself a bit, worried that he’s said too much. He always does that. Says too much. Martin doesn’t need to know all this about him. Probably thinks he’s decided to date the wrong person and-

“Then that’s fine,” Martin says. “I don’t entirely understand it, but if it makes you feel good, and you aren’t being coerced then… then I’m glad.”

The worry melts away in an instant, and Jon turns his face against Martin’s chest to rub his cheek against it, which is the best way he can think to show gratitude right now when words choke in his throat. Martin doesn’t push for words either, just keeps up that slow, gentle petting. 

They lay in silence for a while, and Jon is nearly asleep when Martin speaks again. “I think I might like to watch again, sometime.”

The words are said softly, but Jon stirs enough to look up at Martin. Martin’s cheeks are bright red by now. Adorably awkward. “I mean, if you’re okay with it. Just… you looked amazing and I didn’t think- it looked interesting, alright?”

Jon hums a laugh against Martin’s shirt. “I think I have an idea. We’ll have to speak to Elias. But I’m sure he’d be willing to accommodate.”

He hasn’t seen Elias quite as accommodating with anyone else before, honestly. He’d seen the interest in the way he’d looked at Martin.

“Thank you, Jon,” Martin says.

Jon gives a soft, questioning noise.

“For trusting me with this.”

He shifts position so he can press a kiss against the underside of Martin’s jaw. “There’s no-one else I’d rather have there.”

Martin’s smile blossoms, making his whole face light up. “I love you too, Jon.”


End file.
